


Dangerously Dull

by AtypicalOwl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 3 + 1 Things, Crack, Friendship, Gen, Sherlock being silly, geese are evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtypicalOwl/pseuds/AtypicalOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there is one thing John has learned thus far, it is that hearing the word “dull” is never a good sign around Sherlock. Dull and Sherlock go together like cesium and water: they make a big boom and a big mess to clean up.</p><p>Or, "3 Times the Word 'Dull' Preceded Disaster, and 1 Time it Didn't".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dangerously Dull

 “DULL!”

“Shush! I'm trying to concentrate.”

Slightly quieter: “Dull.”

“Shush.”

“But I'm bored!”

“And I'm on a timer!” John reaches out a hesitant hand and moves a pawn forward, then clicks the button on the timer next to him.

Across the board from him, Mike Stamford frowns and bites his lip, pondering the safety of his knight.

“Alright,” John says, “I've got a minute now.” He looks behind him, to where Sherlock is sprawled across a park bench, eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin. John knows that if he hadn't dragged Sherlock out to the park today, he would be in that exact same position on the couch at home. John was quite surprised that his weak argument had worked. He hadn't expected “you're more likely to find a diversion in a public park than in the ceiling” to get more than a grunt in response, but apparently Sherlock agreed that watching the “dull common folk” mill about was more interesting than watching the paint fade.

Which is what led them here, in the park, on a crisp Fall day, John playing chess against Mike and trying desperately not to be distracted by a flatmate with the attention span of a housefly.

Mike makes his move, sending a bishop to protect his knight, and slaps the timer, perhaps with a bit more force than necessary, rattling the small device.

John turns away from Sherlock and ponders his next move. He supposes he should have been planning ahead while Mike was moving, considering he's on the clock, but Sherlock being petulant is always a recipe for disaster.

“It doesn't matter, you know. He will checkmate you in no more than six moves,” Sherlock drawls.

John rolls his eyes and moves his queen, then hits the timer again. “How do you know that? You've had your eyes closed for the past dozen moves!”

Sherlock huffs. “Must I explain _everything?”_

_“_ Apparently not.” Mike is taking a while making his next move, so John turns to Sherlock again. “If you're so bored, why don't you go do what normal people tend to do in the park? Walk, feed the birds, that sort of thing?”

“And miss your inevitable defeat?”

John has a biting remark on the tip of his tongue, but Mike has moved and he is forced to direct his attention back to the board. After he selects a destination for his rook, John hears tutting from behind him.

“I stand corrected, checkmate in three moves. You really should have moved your remaining knight instead.”

“Shoo! You're distracting me!” John does not turn at the sound of a sigh and retreating footsteps, choosing instead to focus his attention fully on the game.

It doesn't matter. Mike still manages to checkmate him in four moves (Ha! Take that, Sherlock!). They reset the board, and start playing again.

John and Mike are halfway through their second game since Sherlock left when they hear a commotion on the other side of the park. A cacophony of voices and bird calls echoes around the park. A tall, dark figure appears, running madly.

Mike squints into the distance. “Is that...?”

John follows his gaze, then buries his head in his hands. “Yep. It is.”

Sherlock's coat billows out behind him as his feet pound the dirt. He is running like the Devil himself is chasing him (though knowing Sherlock, it is more likely to be the other way around, but sometimes you just can't beat a good analogy). Mike and John peer at him, searching for whatever has set the detective fleeing.

The answer comes in the form of a large flock of geese, alternately waddling and flapping behind Sherlock, honking angrily at him.

“How did he...?” Mike shakes his head. “You know what, I don't think I even want to know.”

Sherlock's long legs cover the distance deceptively fast, and before John can react, he has passed them, shouting “not bored any more” over his shoulder, and then John and Mike have to cower under the chess table, shielding themselves from the storm of angry wings and beaks.

There is a thud, and Sherlock yelps. Honest to God yelps.

John covers his face in his hands again and moans.

Later, when the geese have dispersed and they have made their way back to 221B, John asks just what exactly Sherlock did to get the flocks of hell chasing after him.

Sherlock sniffs, says something about “experimental data proving that the 'do not feed the birds' signs are, indeed, necessary and factual”, then sulks off to his room.

John barely suppresses a snicker at what he sees as Sherlock retreats: a perfect, rather beak-shaped hole in the seat of Sherlock's trousers. So _that_ was what the yelp was about. Goosed by a goose! Serves him right for complaining about how dull it was.

* * *

 “Dull.”

John does not even look up from his book. “Then entertain yourself.”

“Can't. Life is dull.”

John rolls his eyes, a gesture he finds himself repeating often these days, and fumbles for his bookmark. “Good God Sherlock, you live in the 21st century! Are you telling me that there is absolutely nothing, anywhere, that is worth holding your interest? Nothing on the telly? Nothing at the library? Nothing on the Internet?”

“It's all dumbed down, dull discourse for the dull masses.”

John is sorely tempted to beat himself in the head with his Harry Potter book. Or perhaps beat Sherlock with it. But he tries another tactic. “All of it?”

“Yes.” The word is muffled. Sherlock has fallen face first on the couch and appears to be attempting to suffocate himself in a cushion.

John raises an eyebrow. “Well, how can you be sure of that? The Internet is a big place. You may be a freakish speed-reader, but there's too much out there for you to say, definitively, that there's nothing interesting.”

Sherlock turns his head and opens one eye. “Is that a challenge?”

John smiles. “I dare say it might be.”

And then there is blessed peace and quiet for the next two and a half hours. Not complete silence, as the rapid-fire clicking of the keyboard fills the flat every so often, but pretty darn quiet compared to what living with a bored Sherlock usually is like.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and John is startled out of the Triwizard Tournament by the sound of the laptop lid slamming shut. “Oi!” he calls. “You had better not have broken my laptop!” Because of course the great git wouldn't be using his own laptop. John shivers. Letting Sherlock loose on the Internet? He's probably going to have to nuke the browsing history at the very least.

“Relax, I didn't damage it.” Sherlock walks back into the living room, oddly subdued, then perches on the edge of the couch, looking contemplative.

John sits upright, puzzled by the change in behavior. “What's up?”

Sherlock shakes his head, as if to clear away cobwebs. “As much as it pains me to say it, you were right. I don't know the full extent of the Internet's capabilities for diversion.”

John groans. “Please tell me I'm not going to find porno viruses on there.”

“No, but what I saw was, frankly, quite disturbing.”

This gets John's attention. What could possibly disturb Mr. Go-Harpoon-a-Pig-For-Fun? He asks as much.

Sherlock turns to him, a haunted look in his eyes. “Have you ever heard of the website called... 4chan?”

* * *

John has nothing against experiments in general. Properly conducted, they are a fabulous tool for learning and scientific exploration. Chemistry and biology were always fun classes in school; getting to play with chemicals and unusual supplies and, at times, semi-dangerous combinations, was always the highlight of school (and if John tended to end up with pretty lab partners who were easily impressed by burning strips of magnesium, then, he wasn't going to complain. Even if he ended up doing most of the work).

Outside school, well, who knows what wonders science is discovering right now! He would be perfectly pleased to be put out of a job because some researchers somewhere discovered a cure for cancer, broken bones, and the common cold.

That being said, though, some experiments are simply unacceptable to John. Generally, those John disapproves of involve radioactivity, copious amounts of hazardous substances, or unwilling test subjects (the events at Baskerville spring to mind quite readily). Unfortunately, those seem to be the type of experiments his flatmate tends to favor.

"Sherlock, why is there a heart in the oven?"

"Sherlock, you let that rat down from there this instant!"

"Can't you study the effects of pollen on allergies *without* dusting my pillow with the stuff? By the way, it stains! You're doing the laundry next time!"

"Bloody hell Sherlock, please tell me I am not going to get cancer from this leaky barrel of whatever it is you have in the tub!"

And every time John questions something like just why Sherlock found it necessary to leave slices of pig lungs in the toaster, Sherlock will reply with a variation of the same answer: "No case. Today was dull. I needed a diversion."

So, experiments: good. Sherlock's experiments: bad. Experiments conducted when Sherlock is having a dull day: very bad.

It would seem that humans can get used to just about anything, though. There comes a night when John walks in the flat, sees the mess, stares at what's on the ceiling for a moment, then heads straight into his bedroom, calling behind him "I don't want to know, and quite frankly I don't care, just clean it up when you're done, and if you make Ms. Hudson do it I will suffocate you with a pollen covered pillow."

Sherlock smirks, and writes another measurement on the paper in front of him.

In a few minutes, a voice floats across the flat.

"Okay, fine. I have two questions. Just how did you obtain ten gallons of silly putty, and will someone be knocking on the door tomorrow asking me to pay for the ocelot?"

* * *

 "Dull."

John's heart leaps into his mouth when he hears the word, and he looks up from his half-written blog post about a stolen antique book in alarm.

“Dull. Dull. Dull. Dull! All dull!”

An ominous thump comes from the kitchen. “Is there anything here that isn't completely dull?”

If there is one thing he has learned thus far, it is that hearing the word “dull” is never a good sign around Sherlock. Dull and Sherlock go together like cesium and water: they make a big boom and a big mess to clean up.

He briefly closes his eyes, praying to whatever deity may be listening that Sherlock will not destroy the flat by the time he gets up to intervene.

"Dull!"

Sherlock is in the kitchen, which is never a good sign during a dull moment. By this point, he is probably considering an experiment that will ruin another appliance. Thank goodness the git had a nice string of cases last week, John is not sure they will be able to afford another whatever-Sherlock-is-about-to-destroy without the paychecks.

"Dull! So dull!"

Another (har de har) dull thud comes from the direction of the kitchen, followed by a rasping noise of metal on metal.

John sighs, sets his laptop aside, and pushes himself up off the couch, bracing for the worst.

In the kitchen, he is greeted with a most strange sight: the counters are not covered in chemicals and body parts as he had feared, but vegetables, jars of spices, and utensils. The chemistry equipment has vanished from the table, replaced by a deep pan with what appears to be a whole, raw chicken sitting inside.

Sherlock himself is standing with his back to John, muttering about dull things, with the strings of a blue apron tied around his waist. He does something with his hands, and the rasping noise happens again, louder.

"Ah, what is all this?" John asks, surprised.

Sherlock glances over his shoulder. "Dinner, or at least it will be."

John glances around, bemused. "It doesn't take a consulting detective to deduce that. Let me rephrase: why are you cooking dinner?"

"I was bored. And cooking is merely applied chemistry, after all. It is rather fascinating to observe the interactions between the various ingredients in the final product, even taking into account the subjectivity of taste. Various perceptions of taste could be a year's worth of experimentation in itself."

"Come on Spock, we both know that's bull. You'd be blowing up the flat with chemicals then making me order takeout if you were bored, not cooking a chicken." John grins at the raw bird. "Though I have to say, a chicken contained in a baking pan is a nice change from having chicken livers dripping in the dishwasher."

Sherlock gains an affronted expression on his face. "First, they were spleens. Second, they were only dripping because you opened the door in the middle of the cycle. If you had allowed it to run it's course, the heat dry should have desiccated them far beyond the point of dripping."

Sherlock's face is so serious and petulant about the topic of chicken spleens that John can't help it, he chuckles a little. When he regains his composure, he asks, "So if you've got a nice little chemistry experiment going here, why are you complaining things are dull? Surely ratios of celery and carrots are diverting."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "I was referring to these." He holds up a long kitchen knife. "All the knives we have are dreadfully dull. I cannot debone this chicken with such inferior tools, so I am sharpening them all!" He takes a step to the side, and John can see the small pile of knives next to a whetstone that is resting on the counter. Sherlock waves the long knife in John's direction, making John take a step back. "You really need to take better care of your culinary tools. Have you never heard of a sharpening stick?"

"Oi! You're the one who had them all stuck in the side of the dresser two months ago!"

 


	2. Outtakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little bits that, for whatever reason, didn't make the cut (ba dum tish) for the final version of "Dull". 
> 
> Warning: OOC, OOC everywhere!

And then there is blessed quiet for the next two hours. Not complete silence, as the rapid-fire clicking of the keyboard fills the flat every so often, but pretty darn quiet compared to what living with a bored Sherlock usually is like. Then, two more quiet hours after that. And another two hours. And finally, John puts down his book and stretches, wiping the residual tears off his face after the ending of the book (CEDRIC! WHY!), and trying to work the kinks out of his back that have formed in the course of the evening. He looks at the clock and marvels that Sherlock seems to have stayed out of trouble for this long.

John strolls into the kitchen, where Sherlock is still hunched over the laptop, reading something. “What did you find?”

Sherlock twitches slightly, the closest he ever comes to being startled. Eyes glued to the screen, a small whimper escapes his mouth. “Please help. I seem to be trapped.”

John glances over Sherlock's shoulder, and stifles a chuckle when he sees the name of the website Sherlock is caught on: TvTropes.org.

* * *

Sherlock turns to him, a haunted look in his eyes. “Have you ever heard of... Fanfiction?”

* * *

 “Have you ever heard of... Tumblr?”

* * *

 Alas, all good things must come to an end, and John is startled out of the Triwizard Tournament by the sound of the laptop lid slamming shut.

Sherlock walks back into the living room and plops down on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

“What's up?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head, as if to clear away cobwebs. “As much as it pains me to say it, you were right. I don't know the full extent of the Internet's capabilities for diversion.”

John groans. “Please tell me I'm not going to find porno viruses on there.”

“No, but what I saw was rather intriguing, and I am still sorting the information. It seemed to be so pointless and inane at first, but I found myself returning to it again and again...”

“What, then?”

Sherlock smiles then, a warm, genuine smile. The biggest and most wonderful smile John has seen on his face, even surpassing the time Molly let him see a corpse with a rare birth defect, and even do a bit of dissection. Frankly, it worries John to see that expression on Sherlock's face. Smiles and Sherlock just don't seem to mix!

“Ok, I'll bite. What did you find?”

Sherlock turns that oh-so-strange smile on him. “As it turns out, John, friendship really is magic! I'm not a sociopath any more! All it took was a few oddly-colored ponies to teach me that!”

* * *

 “Have you ever heard of... lolcats?”

* * *

“Have you ever heard of... Angry Birds?” 

* * *

"Dull."

"Mhm."

"Bored."

"Mmhmm."

"Tedious."

"Okay."

"Disenchanted."

"Alright."

"Apathetic."

"Yes."

"That last one was directed at you."

"I don't care, Sherlock. If you're bored, go read a book or something, I'm busy."

"Indifferent. And I already did."

"Choose something other than the thesaurus next time, will you?"

* * *

"Dull."

There was no response.

"DULL!"

Still, no response.

"I SAID DULL!"

Silence in the flat. Then, a soft snore. Apparently, learning to sleep in a war zone  _does_ have advantages in civilian life.

* * *

“Dull.”

“Dull.”

“Dull?”

“Dull?”

“Sharp?”

“Sharp.”

“Oh, you're repeating me.”

“Oh, you're repeating me.”

“And you say I'm immature.”

“And you say I'm immature.”

“Hi, I'm John.”

“Hi, I'm John.”

“I'm an immature prat.”

“You really are.”

“Damn.”

* * *

 “Ebay is really quite intriguing. Did you know you can buy bulk gas masks?”

“Sherlock, no.”

"But-"

"No."

* * *

“Have you ever heard of...”

“LALALALALA I CAN'T HEAR YOU I'M NOT LISTENING SO DON'T EVEN BOTHER TELLING ME ABOUT WHATEVER IT IS!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Sherlock's defense, Google Chrome's version of Angry Birds is really quite addictive...

**Author's Note:**

> Outtakes will be posted within the next few days (because there are far too many possibilites for Sherlock and the Internet to simply limit myself to 4chan!)


End file.
